Can you hear me
by kylermalloy
Summary: 14x19 Canon Divergent. Sam has second thoughts about the Ma'lak box. He struggles with the decision to let Jack out, while listening to Jack break down inside. Title inspired by Silent Running
1. Chapter 1

**So I'm still not over this episode and the silly writing that shaped it. Here's a take on Sam's thoughts right after the incident, and the doubt he _should have_ felt and acted on.**

* * *

The lid closes with a bone-rattling _clank_ that echoes through Sam's soul.

Dean slides the locks into place with callous little _chinks_. They shatter in Sam's ears.

_Okay._

Sam can't shake Jack's serene little smile, his pristine expression of calm, from in front of his eyes.

He lied to him. He lied to his kid, straight to his _face._

And Jack bought it. Of course he did. Sam's done nothing but tell him the truth, ever.

It was so easy to lock the most dangerous being in the universe away—because that being _trusted Sam._

_Okay._

In a way, Sam is glad Jack can't see his face anymore. He couldn't stand to look Jack in the eye for a second longer. Couldn't stand the faith there, the trust, the calm, the affection pouring out.

(Sam _knows _Jack isn't completely gone. Well, he thinks. He wants to think. He hopes. He didn't really get much of a chance to tell. One conversation isn't enough.)

He doesn't know what to think. Everything has happened so fast. Before he knew it, Jack was in the box with a smile on his face and Sam heard himself say the words _Not long. Jack, we got this._

_Okay._

Sam knows Jack's calm won't last forever. For most of his short life, Jack found his calm in Sam. Once he realizes Sam has abandoned him, Jack won't be so complacent anymore.

Not that it'll do him any good. The box is closed. Locked. Warded. He can't come out.

Still. Sam can't stand the thought of Jack's trust in Sam eroding, flaking away into dust on the bottom of that box—that _coffin._ Jack's coffin. This box is meant to be that boy's last resting place.

Sam lured him inside with false smiles and promises.

And Jack agreed with a soft _Okay._

_What kind of parent am I._

The room is too hot and too cold all at once. Accusations breathe down his neck like ghosts. The itch of what he's just done to Jack, to his _kid,_ slithers through his bones, tingling his nerves.

Without a word to Dean, he turns and leaves the room. He can't stand to be in there.

.

.

.

But at the same time, he can't stand to be anywhere _else._

While Dean drinks away his guilt (or maybe just his grief, Sam can't tell anymore) Sam makes his way back down to the bowels of the bunker, where they kept Nick, where they'll now keep Jack. Forever.

Shaking fingers undo the latch on the door. He steps back inside with more uncertainty than is rational.

The room is just as he left it. Less than ten minutes ago. Nothing has changed.

Except.

The box isn't soundproof. Sam can hear vague echoes of Jack's voice, pinging through the metal into his skull. Jack's saying something.

He isn't sure, but he thinks Jack might be saying _Sam, Sam, Sam._

Jack's calling for him.

Such a simple realization crashes on Sam's shoulders like a yoke across his back. He stumbles to the box and falls to his knees beside it. He bows his head, forehead coming to rest just below the lip of the lid.

"_Sam? Are you still out there? Sam?_

"_I don't think I like this."_

It's happening already. Jack is losing courage. He won't be able to stay there for a day, let alone an eternity.

"_Sam?"_

There's a wall, a world, between them. Even so, Jack calls out for the person he trusts. The person he loves.

He wants Sam.

Sam's voice is so faint, so muted by uncertainty, by guilt, by years of doubting himself and his worth. "Jack." He's not even sure it carries enough for Jack to hear. "I'm still here."

"_Sam. I'm scared."_

The sweetness of being wanted, being sought after in moments of fear, is overshadowed by the acid of knowing he can't provide that comfort. He can't tell Jack everything will be all right. He can't open the box and let Jack go free. He can't tell Jack to sit tight for all the ages of the world to pass him by, and—

"I'm sorry."

He wants to reach his fingers through the metal, to hold his scared and vulnerable kid, to murmur enough apologies and platitudes to fill that box to the brim.

He whispers it over and over and over again "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryIm_sorryimsorryimsorry—_"

In this furious chant, this prayer to the heavenly being he raised from birth, are the words he can't form. The words too heavy for his tongue.

_I didn't want to. I didn't know what else to do. We aren't thinking clearly._

_I'll find something. I'll get something else. A solution. A way to fix you. I won't leave you locked up in there forever. I won't do that to you. I can't._

_Jack, please talk to me. Let me know you're okay._

His forehead anchors him to the box, to Jack. The cold metal against his forehead burns like a brand somehow.

Sam's fingers inch heedlessly up to the latches on the lid. One in each hand. All he has to do is flick his fingers, and he can undo this mess.

He can't. Dean would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

But Jack.

As he kneels there, contemplating, agonizing, the metal warms under his hands. Not the warmth of his palms lingering there too long—no, this is unnatural. It's the whole box. The entire thing, cooking like it's on a stove.

Sam's head jerks upward, to look at the warding on the lid.

It's glowing.

Heat pulses through Sam's hands to his heart, and shoots out again as cold adrenaline. The box is _shaking._ Whatever Jack's doing inside, it's visible outside the box.

But this box was meant to be impenetrable.

"Jack," Sam breathes. His legs stumble backwards with stunned, tiny steps.

This box was for Michael. An archangel.

Jack's not an archangel.

Sam doesn't know what Jack is thinking. Is he scared? Angry? Completely soulless and ready to kill whatever gets in his way?

"Jack," he tries again hoarsely.

Jack's innocent, trusting face punches his mind's eye. _Okay._

_I love you._

And Sam can't keep himself paralyzed anymore.

He rushes forward. Panic smothers him, choking the words he tries to force from his mouth. He isn't sure if he even says them. _Hold on I'll get you out Jack just calm down—_

Fingers fumble with latches. He has to jerk them away—it's too hot to touch now.

_Jack please hold on just—_

He tastes ozone on his tongue and he _knows._

The box disintegrates in a blinding flood of white.

.

.

.

Sam can't feel what hits his body. There's no pain, no burning, no blunted ache after impact. All he knows he's not on his feet anymore. He smells something charring. Something thick and liquid and metallic.

And he can't feel his body.

He drifts. Loses time. Loses sight. Color. Feeling. Sound.

The last thing that claws through is one word, in Jack's very small voice.

"Sam?"

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**I've been reading all of these glorious fix-its where Sam lets Jack out, and for my version I knew I had to do something different. Sorry?**

**Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think below - reviews feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and say hi!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So at the encouragement of several friends, this second chapter came into being, and if you can believe it, was more painful to write than the first. Enjoy more angst!**

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Jack doesn't know where he is. He doesn't care.

He can't even really see it, not after the glare of the bunker's emergency lights have left a flashing red overlay across his vision. Sam's broken body pulses in front of his eyes. Along with the bunker's alarm still blaring in his head.

_KILLER. KILLER. KILLER._

_YOU. KILLED. SAM._

That box. He just wanted out of the box.

He was afraid they weren't going to let him out. He got scared.

And that fear has taken Sam away from him.

He should have trusted Sam. Sam wouldn't let him down. Sam was _in the room with him._ Maybe he was about to open the lid before Jack blew the whole thing to kingdom come.

Not just the box. The room.

And Sam along with it.

He can still see it in his mind. Sam's body, splayed at odd angles under pieces of stone and rubble. Dark liquid pooling from his head. From everywhere. Eyes open.

He can still feel rocks slipping under his feet as he stumbles to Sam. The uneven ground giving way, just like his whole life.

It's gone now. Over. His home, his family. He just destroyed any chance of fixing things.

And what's the point, anyway. If Sam is gone.

Not gone. Dead. Killed. By him. By Jack.

_YOU. KILLED. SAM._

His heart screams the burning question. _Why couldn't I heal him?_

Jack can still feel Sam's cooling skin beneath his fingers. He'd pressed two desperate fingers to Sam's bloody forehead, trying to focus his power through the panic tearing through him. It was nearly impossible—like trying to redirect a tornado with a handheld fan.

The realization had settled over him like a suffocating blanket. He wouldn't be able to undo what he'd done.

He can still feel the dead weight in his arms, as he'd tried to lift Sam's body from the sea of rubble. Sam had slipped out of his grasp, just like the last splinters of his old life.

His breathing had come in shorter and shorter gasps, dread spiraling through his stomach. Tears piercing his eyes like a hot poker.

_KILLER. KILLER. KILLER._

The shouts of _Sammy _and _What happened _had propelled Jack to his feet. Dean on his way. The thought of Dean seeing the carnage, the result of Jack's latest destruction, had been enough for Jack to take flight.

He doesn't know where he is now. His only thought had been _away._

His hands weave into his hair, helpless desperation rocking him back and forth on his knees.

_Why didn't it work?_

His powers had worked just days ago. The scene then had been frighteningly similar. Sam gasping on the ground. Blood leaking dark and sticky from the gash in his head, mixing with the surrounding snow. Eyes staring.

Jack's panic then had been just as terrifying, just as all-consuming. Seeing Sam, the person he'd first trusted in the world, the person to always care for him and protect him, the only one to always believe in him, lying bloodless on the ground, had stolen the breath from his lungs. Turned his limbs to rubber.

Only one single coherent thought had steeled its way through.

_He couldn't let Sam die._

He'd knelt at Sam's head, next to Dean. He could hear Dean's breath catch with every inhale. Dean was frantic. And if Dean were so upset about Sam, then that meant it was serious.

Jack had reached deep inside him, calling on the foreign grace to knit Sam back together. The heat had pulsed through his fingers into Sam's forehead, where he could feel the healing begin immediately.

It had been easy. Healing had been easy.

But then he'd killed Mary.

Then he couldn't bring her back to life.

Now Jack seems to have lost the ability to heal altogether. Now his powers only seem to destroy.

He killed Mary, and he couldn't bring her back.

And now he's done the same thing to Sam.

He claps a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sobs punching their way up his throat. Sam. Gone. _Gone._

A million memories bounce against the walls of Jack's mind, each one bringing him more pain than the next.

Sam, sitting next to him on the bench outside that police station. Still in his first day of life, and Jack already had a bloody hole in his shirt. Sam had placed a hand on his back and spoken softly to him. _I don't know if you caught it in there, but my name's Sam. I know you're scared, but I'm going to take care of you, okay? You're gonna be okay, Jack._

Sam kneeling next to Jack's bed, where Jack sat cross-legged concentrating on a pencil in front of him. _You know you don't have to try that anymore. I told you we would stop._

_But you asked me to,_ Jack had protested. _I want to do this for you. _Less than a month old, and he already wanted to do anything Sam asked. Already his chest swelled when Sam smiled at him, offered him encouragement.

Sam's hand on his shoulder, after Jack had come to his room in the dead of night. _Jack. None of this is your fault. You didn't ask for any of this to happen. And you don't need to go around thinking that. That you just cause problems. I really think the world can be better with you in it. Not because of your powers. Just you being you._

_What if I mess up? What if I let you down?_

_You don't have to prove yourself to me, Jack. We're all going to make mistakes. What matters is that we try not to. I mean, do you want to be evil?_

_No. I just...don't want to hurt anyone._

_Then I don't think you have to worry about letting me—us—down._ Sam had drawn him in close, into the first hug he'd ever had. The gesture had brought a lump to Jack's throat and tears to his eyes.

Thinking about it now crushes Jack. He crumples to the ground on his side, wishing for the earth to swallow him whole, so he can follow Sam to wherever he's gone.

Jack still doesn't want to be evil. But he has hurt people—killed them. Good people. A good person. The very person who first believed in him. Who made him believe in himself.

Maybe this is a mistake he can't come back from.

Maybe killing Mary damaged his soul in such a way that it affected his powers. Maybe after such a dark deed he can't heal anymore, no matter how much grace is in him.

Maybe that act, the murder of an innocent, was the one to push him adrift for all time. Maybe there is no coming back. No good left in him.

After all, he just killed Sam.

What could be more evil than that?

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**Thank you for reading! Leave a review to let me know what you think! As always, you can check out my tumblr too!**


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